Hilltopping



Yesterday, lured to a hill’s heights, I looked
          where the Sun
Pointed and there, drawn up green flanks and
               over its spine
Came tangles of black and wild gold. Swallowtails
                    mounted,
Helical twinings rising above sagebrush, they spun
Into themselves at the mating point, as if they see
Nothing can be and be neutral, as if from each point
And to each point, there is an infinity of line
Gathering to one undeniable pressure to be.